Springtime

The sun reflects off the ripples of the water’s surface as the water calmly moves back and forth across the pool. The sound of the water rippling can be heard above the sparrows chirping in the trees. The water looks cool and inviting, the sun beating down hot upon the land makes it even more so. The trees, mainly palms and ferns flow gently in the light afternoon breeze. It is a warm breeze, and almost non-existent but if you were wet you would most certainly feel it.
It is spring and the flowers are all approaching full bloom, their scents are over powering as they all combine in the breeze. Taken in individually they are all sweet and potent and alluring, but on mass they can be quite over bearing. They bring the bees, not as many as in past years but enough to pollinate the plants and help the fruits grow.
The sun is so bright that the gnomes poking their heads out from behind the shrubs have their faces obscured by the brightness of the suns light, they appear as a mass of white. It is not that hot a day, only around 27 degrees, but the brightness of the sun deceives you into thinking that it is hot enough for a swim. It is not until you lower your foot into the water and the chill of its iciness runs up your entire body that you realise it is not quite yet swimming weather. It is almost time, and you are happy to wait, sit down and enjoy the spring.

...ellipses

The dull routine of existence is boring me endlessly. I need a challenge, something, anything. I have done nothing, and I mean absolutely nothing for three months, the time would have been better spent if I had slept through it all, and believe me I tried.
I detest the common place that has become my life, it has left me drained of energy and sick. How does boredom make one ill?
I am stuck in that section in literature that gets deleted and replaced with an ellipses because it isn't even worth mentioning.

Remember

When I am gone what will they remember?
Will they remember it all?
The skeletons I have in the closet?

The bodies I’ve buried in the basement?

The stars I’ve shot into the sky?

The birds I’ve taught to fly?

Will they remember the stories I’ve told?
The stupid things I’ve done in my quest to grow old?
The smile on my face as I danced in the rain?
The tears that I shed in moments of pain?
Will they remember the lessons I’ve taught and the battles I‘ve fought?
The wars I have won and that peace left unsung?

Will they remember it all?
Or will they remember nothing at all?

forgetting...

I woke an hour early today, the dream of my old mentor dying made it impossible for me to go back to sleep. I was ashamed at myself for forgetting he was still alive in the first place. I was then filled with the sad truth that in time with absence I would forget everyone and everything. It had only been 6 months and I had forgotten all about the most inspiring person I had ever met. It annoys me that I am still haunted by bad memories from years ago but the good slip through my grasp. It’s like trying to hold onto water, even the wetness of your hands quickly dries up and you are left with nothing.
I got up, went to my wardrobe and pulled out a shirt. It was a collared white t-shirt, I had been looking for it for a year and it was never in there, but now here it was right in plain sight. I noticed it was dirty, the cuffs had marks and there was a strange stain on the front. I have no idea how it had gotten put away in such a state, my dirty clothes always make the basket or failing that, the floor. I couldn’t work it out. I put it on over another shirt and some slacks and I walked outside to watch the sunrise.
It was cold, my jacket was inside, I don’t know why I didn’t put it on, I don’t know why I had gone out in the cold to see the sun. Perhaps it was because I am rarely up that early, perhaps it was because I had not seen the sun in days and I wanted to feel the warmth of it on my skin or perhaps it was because I thought that standing in its light would help me to hold onto the memories of happier times.
I moved my herb garden into the sun and went inside to make some breakfast. As I watched the jug boil I wondered if it were possible to forget everything, if I isolated myself long enough would it all be gone? Could I even forget myself, my name. I’ve already forgotten my age, my sister reminded me of that the other day on the phone. It wasn’t that I cared, but I found it strange that I couldn't remember.
Sometimes I forget to eat, forget to sleep, forget where I am, forget who I am. I wish I could forget about the things that come out of the darkness and scar, but I am still haunted by those, perhaps I always will be. When all else is forgotten I will be consumed by that which resides in the dark.
I want to know why sadness clings longer than happiness. If I forget someone is alive is that worse than forgetting someone is dead? I want to know why others are dead and I am still alive, is there a reason?

Progress

I used to hear the birds sing in the morning

Welcoming in the new day

Now I hear the planes flying

All the birds have flown away

I used to watch the ants making their way

Through the grass on the ground

Now it has been paved over

Not a single ant can be found

I used to look to the stars at night

Now the lights are so bright I cannot see

I used to watch the sun rise up over the meadow

Now the smog and buildings hide it from me

I wonder will my children mourn the planes, the pavers and the light

As I mourn the birds, the grass and the night

Maybe this time.

A sly smirk curled its way over his face as he watched her through the window. She was making dinner; the window was slightly ajar, enough for the smell of the meat cooking to waft out toward him. He breathed deep, the smell of roast lamb making him hungry, but it was not food he would need to quench that hunger.

He already had his knife in his hand, as he shifted his position the blade caught the last rays of the setting sun and reflected them onto the back porch of the house. Every kill was different for him, every single one, while he stood there he was savouring the moment, planning everything down to the minute detail. He knew he would reflect back on the kill after it was done, wonder about ways to perfect his work, ways to make the excitement of it last longer.
The first kill felt the best, it was sloppy and he was terrified after, but the rush of adrenaline that came with it was like nothing he had ever known before. Each kill that followed it seemed to lose something; they shadowed it in time and in satisfaction. For that reason he had to keep killing, to find that rush again, to work out what he was doing wrong now that he didn’t do that first time.
As he watched her he thought, “This time. Maybe this one will be the one.”
He waited until she had sat down to eat. He knew she was alone, he had watched the house all day. He walked up to the slightly open window in the kitchen. He opened it properly and climbed inside.
He did not attack her straight away; instead he walked up the stairs and intentionally made a sound. He waited, he knew she would hear it, try to ignore it, pretend it was the wind or something. After a little while he made one of the upstairs doors slowly creak shut then he moved far away from it, knowing she would have to investigate.

Sure enough up the stairs she came turning on every light she passed and trying not to appear afraid. He remained hidden, letting her check the room and confirm that it was empty, he even heard her mutter something about it being, ‘just the wind.’
He allowed her enough time to settle down to her dinner again before he made another sound, this time in the upstairs bathroom. He dropped something breakable into the sink, smirked at himself in the mirror above it and then went back into hiding.
She came up the stairs again, her eyes wide and her hands shaking slightly, but still she tried desperately to show no fear. She got to the bathroom, looked at herself in the mirror, saw that she was frightened and tried to calm herself. She looked down into the sink, she smiled thinking herself a fool to be afraid of the sound of something slipping into the sink and breaking.
She looked back up at the mirror still smiling, but it was in that instant that the smile was wiped from her face and she stared in sheer terror at what was reflected in the mirror. He stood right behind her, the blade of his knife shining in his hand. She did not have time to turn around or scream. In less than a second he had moved and slid that blade gracefully across her throat.
She did not die instantly; he held her upright with his other hand as he stared at her in the mirror, blood dripping down from her neck. She couldn’t scream, she couldn’t move, she could feel herself dying and she could do nothing to stop it. Nothing but stare at his reflection in the mirror as it stared back at her.
When she was dead he let her lifeless body fall to the floor.
“Maybe next time. Next time will be the one.”

White Walls

Despite the lack of posting I am still here. Other than writing more of the hitman story I've had a bit of writers block. Nothing seems to inspire me to the point of writing, nothing good anyway, and I don't want this to turn into a blog with nothing but whinny depressive posts that after you've read them you want to off yourself just to escape having to read more.
I'll give it a shot though.

It was perfect, the perfect apartment, the perfect main room. She stared at the white painted walls. The whole apartment looked brand new, she knew it couldn't be, the building was very old, but the previous owners had done a wonderful job of restoring it to newness. White walls, brand new carpet, perfectly clean cupboards, everything white. She had just unpacked all her belongings and was sitting down enjoying the personal freedom that comes with finally having your own place. She was wondering what colour to paint the walls. White was nice, but she wanted colours, rainbows of colours.

On her way home from work the next day she stopped off at the hardware store and picked up a few tins of sample paint, just to get a feel for what they would look like. Maybe she could even paint a mural if she had time. After she had finished dinner and put on some painting clothes, she opened the tins and splashed some colours on the walls. She found it hard to imagine what the whole place would look like in those colours so she started painting pictures, she wasn't very clean with her brush and bits of paint splattered onto the carpet and onto some of her furniture as well. She didn't mind, most of her stuff was second or third-hand anyway. When she had had enough fun paining kittens and puppies and what were supposed to be trees she closed up the tins and went to have a shower to wash the paint of her. After that she went straight to bed.

She got up at the last minute, hurriedly got dressed and raced off to work, she had been in such a hurry that she had not really looked at anything, so it wasn't until she got home that night that she noticed what should have been so obvious in the morning. The walls were white, there were no bunnies or kittens or puppies or trees, they were gone. She stared at the walls in shock. How was that possible?

She opened the tins again and practically poured the paint onto the walls, paint spilled everywhere, she smeared it on every wall until she was exhausted and then she showered and went to bed. She woke in the morning thinking it must have all been some horrible nightmare, but when she stepped into the main room she was greeted once again by the whiteness of those walls. She screamed!

After recovering from screaming she stared at the walls confused, the paint had to be somewhere, she knew she had painted it and when she opened the tins again they were all nearly empty so she must have used it. She still had a crowbar sitting near the window, she had used it to open some of her crates when she moved it. She picked it up and using the bent end she tried to scrape off the white paint to find her paint underneath, but there was nothing. She scraped to the giprock and broke through that to reveal a wall cavity. She gave up and slumped on the couch just staring at the hole in the wall.

She was sure there was nothing in the deeds mentioning this strange phenomena, she would have noticed and something like this really should be enclosed with the sale information. No wonder the place had been cheap. She bit her nail, did she really need coloured walls she wondered. She knew she didn't, but that wasn't the problem anymore, the problem was that she didn't understand it or know if it was safe to keep living there.

She decided to paint the walls again and then stay up the whole night just to see what happened. She painted and then she sat down and waited. As she waited she noticed that it wasn't just the walls, there was no paint on anything, not even her things, she started to regret her decision to stay up in that room.

As the night drew on the shadows in the room started to move, at first she thought she was sleepy and just seeing things, but no, they turned into two people and started attacking each other. As she watched they stabbed each other and real blood came out of the shadowmen. It splattered on everything, including her. She looked on frozen in disbelief. Then as suddenly as it started they both fell down, apparently dead, she watched as the shadows sank into the carpet and disappeared. It was at that point that she noticed the blood and every other bit of dirt or out of place thing, like the paint on the walls slowly slid down the walls and the furniture and that too was sucked into the carpet. She stood up amazed and walked over to the wall, wanting to see if she could touch the paint as it moved, but that was a mistake.

She did not belong in that room either and she began to sink into the carpet, she didn't even notice it at first, she had been too transfixed on the sliding paint, but when she did she screamed and tried to get back to the couch. It was too late, she struggled and screamed but the carpet ate her up like quicksand and when the morning came it was a nice clean perfect room.